Venus Flytrap
by gschelt
Summary: It could have been a fairy tale, if in the end the dragon were slain. Rose/Bella femslash, oneshot. Rated for themes of rape.


_**Author's Note:** I've been wanting to do something like this forever. The Rose/Bella rape theme is so dark and so worth exploring. I for one love it. Let me know if you do too.  
I own nothing._

* * *

There once was a good girl. She did her homework every night, she cooked for her father, she loved her boyfriend, loyally and chastely. Would she ever imagine someone else, bite back from someone else's name when he touched her? Never. Would she ever let him touch her like that? Never.

There once was a bad girl. She stayed out late. She skipped school. She didn't eat her vegetables. The bad girl only thought of her boyfriend when he was present. Sometimes she entertained thoughts that a good girl should never imagine.

The good girl was a pretty girl. She was a very pretty girl, with pale skin, delicate bird-like bones, and hair and eyes the same rich chestnut color. But she was so timid that she didn't know she looked near perfect like a willowy china doll. Compliments startled her, shamed her like lies. The good girl blushed and left the givers of compliments frustrated. The denial of beauty could sound contrived, but it didn't. She kept her head bowed all the time, not just when she was being modest. That's the giveaway that she was not just fishing; she was just humbly insecure. Insecurely humble. And blind. As a good girl should be.

The bad girl was a beautiful girl. In fact, she was gorgeous; tall and statuesque, with hair so blonde it was white, lips so lush they were red, features so proud they were royal. She carried herself with the grace of knowing her beauty and the power it gave her, and the knowledge was an aura that tripled her beauty. She knew how to use her charm to her advantage and did so flawlessly, maneuvering with the tactical grace of a queen, or a venus flytrap.

But there can be no mistaking that both the good and bad girl were as beautiful as cut glass prisms. The lights they refracted, however, were not the same.

The good girl often liked to lie on her bed, sometimes reading and sometimes studying and sometimes just drifting in a formless daydream. She gazed up at the ceiling, watching the landscapes that the shadows and light from the window painted. She thought of her future and she thought of her present, ideas forming in rich colors. The quiet calmed her delicate nerves.

The bad girl often liked to go through the forest, sometimes taking a path and sometimes going uncharted but always going alone. The greens and the grays were like perfume for her senses, sharpening her like a sewing needle. The sabbatical from architecture and from society was a welcome blessing, wild and quiet, far from the drone of her civilized peers.

The good girl did not particularly like spending time in the forest. It was the uncontrolled element of the elements, the vast amount of lawless territory, the wild things waiting out there. Like most shy girls, she could see the beauty of the wood as with most things, but she was timid and shrewd enough to fear it. As a good girl should be.

The bad girl, conversely, disliked the confinement of the indoors. It wasn't chambers and rooms in general that she disliked – for her appreciation of manmade things was not nonexistent – but rather the sterile monotony of four walls. The bad girl thought little of lying supine in confinement, dreaming and sighing. She thought of it as a deathlike way to pass the time, and that, she would say, was a waste.

*

The bad girl did not run. She had let her speed snowball with her instincts in the thick of the forest, but approaching her destination she did not run. She crept to the fringe of the treeline, standing and gazing, her lips parted with exquisitely measured breath. She watched the window, to the place where the good girl stayed and did not stir, where she surely was lying prone and reading. The bad girl stood; calm, indifferent distaste lacing her fine nerves.

The good girl indeed read. She lay on her bed, naturally, head turned at an angle as though in curiosity; the story was engaging. The book was planted upright in a V on the girl's stomach, and with her slow, gentle breathing it rose and fell like a ship on the waves. After a minute, the chapter was finished, and the good girl heaved a sigh and got up to put the book on the desk by the window. She saw the bad girl walking towards her house, and the breath caught in her throat.

The two of them, as would be the case with good versus bad girls, were not friends. Neither particularly liked the other, though in the good girl's case it wasn't active dislike. Rather, she was shy and wary of the bad girl's disposition, as with a girl like this a good girl should be. The meeker of the two felt intimidation. The other, scorn.

Their gazes met as the bad girl slowed to a halt halfway across the back yard, her hooded eyes narrowing lazily. The good girl's hand faltered on the sill.

"Come out here." The bad girl's voice was a calm command. She looked up at the good girl, who hesitated. She was such a good girl. Good girls flinched at orders and shied away from the harsh voices that issued them… But then again, the bad girl was anything but harsh; gentle, sibilant maybe, and that was what transfixed the good girl. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew the other girl's demeanor could easily be used as a lure for a trap.

*

When the good girl approached, the bad held out her hand. "Come with me," she said.

"Why?" the good girl asked cautiously, thinking of her boyfriend, of all the worst possibilities. Though she was apprehensive, she still extended her hand, and the cold white fingers of the other girl closed around it. The bad girl noticed that as the other asked her questions indicating suspicion, her body still obeyed. More of an indication of weakness.

She led her away.

*

The clearing echoed of far off birdsong, and the bad girl turned to face the good. She knew her own game and she knew it well, standing quietly and pervasively observing the other girl inhale and exhale. Any other individual with spine would not submit to such an X-ray, would clear their throat and ask what this was all about. The good girl opened her mouth and closed it again. The bad girl scowled, disgusted.

The good girl looked at the floor of bent needles and dry leaves. "Is everything-"

The trap was set, tripped, and the bad girl was through with listening to the good girl's vacant words. She moved quickly and closed off the sentence.

*

The good girl smelled the bent needles and dry leaves just inches from her face, pressed into her hair and her back and her thighs. She couldn't breathe, the wind was knocked from her the moment she hit the ground, but the scents still flushed through her as she struggled for air. Hitching and choking silently, unable to register thoughts or shock at the lightning fast movement. The bad girl was above her, eyes dark and lips twisted cruelly, and she was so beautiful. She was beautiful, eyes inches away from her own and abdomens crushed painfully together. The good girl still could hardly register the confusion of beauty and pain and force all at once, gasping as fear bled through her veins.

The bad girl said nothing, made no sound, merely bowed over the other body with her eyes narrowed and her lips curled. She ran her tongue over her teeth calmly, scowling at the good girl's trembling mouth and uneven breath. A twig snapped, and the undergrowth rustled as the bad girl snapped the button of the good girl's jeans. The bodies shifted violently, and the harsh movement jolted the good girl. It thrilled the bad, whose eyes stayed calm and cryptic.

*

"Shall I kiss you?" the bad girl hissed, her lips already a fraction of an inch away from the other's. The whisper, smooth as silk, filled the good girl's ears. She didn't know what to say, what she could say. She couldn't remember how to protest, only rocked and shook violently.

"Please," the good girl gasped, startled tears bruising her eyes. An ironic choice (or lack thereof) of words.

*

Fire ripped through the good girl, that which she had never known. The world swam so she closed her eyes, crying out. She couldn't remember her own name. She couldn't remember the page she marked in her book. Her body stiffened like a rod, agony; fingers clenching at the coarse brown pine needles that brought a trickle of blood.

The bad girl snarled. The sound was uncharacteristic, yet still – somehow – it was a beautiful sound. But the good girl did not hear it anyway. She did not listen. She was far away.

*

The bad girl stood at a distance, looking into the tangle of the wood lazily. She ran a hand through her hair, absently, her back to the other girl. The good girl straightened and brushed the debris from her clothes, needles and fragments of leaves scattering to the ground. She fumbled with her jeans for a moment, the button missing and the zipper broken, and then simply pulled her shirt down over it and looked away, her face downcast and hot. The moment of privacy finished, the bad girl turned back to the other. She came forward and took her hand again. Their skin was of equal temperature.

The bad girl led the good girl home.

*

Alone in her room again, the good girl flipped through her book. The words blurred together. She couldn't find her page. She couldn't even remember the plot.

*

The bad girl walked through the forest, the silence thick. A subtle sound of branches breaking caught her attention, and she looked deep through the trees to her left towards the source of the sound. A doe with both front legs broken struggled through the underbrush.


End file.
